Not terribly odd. Fundis hadn’t worked with Williams in the studio in 20 years, but they spoke every now and again, in short but pleasant snippets.

The phone conversation lasted 45 minutes.

Crazy weird. Shocking, even. Forty-five minutes is roughly 44 and a half minutes longer than an average Don Williams conversation.

Or so I’m told. He never calls me.

See, Williams is known as “The gentle giant,” and as “The Gary Cooper of American music.” (For you kiddos out there, Gary Cooper was a speedy outfielder who played in 21 games for the 1980 Atlanta Braves. Look it up.) Williams is also known as an international force in country music, one popular across generations and continents. He is not, however, known as loquacious.

“Don can be a pretty shy guy,” Fundis says.

Right, you think?

“He’s not comfortable talking about himself. He’s one of the most reluctant stars you’ll ever meet.”

Except I can’t seem to meet him. ’Cause he’s not comfortable talking about himself. Hey, we could always talk about me, instead. ... Ah, never mind.

The subject of that 45-minute phone call was a new album project, Williams’ first major release in 14 years. Williams wanted Fundis to co-produce it, reuniting the studio team responsible for smashes including “Lord, I Hope This Day Is Good,” “Tulsa Time,” “I Believe in You” and “Good Ole Boys Like Me.”

Kind of a big deal then. Not big enough to do, say, promotional interviews. But a big deal. Anyway, Williams is more fascinating in song than most people are in conversation. And way more fascinating in song than he tends to be in his rare published conversations.

Sample Don Williams quote, from a 26-year-old record company bio: “I’m really big on normalcy.”

Normalcy? But for Williams’ 1972 solo debut album, Bobby Bare wrote in the liner notes, “Don Williams is a freak!”

Now, we’re talking. Williams used to be a wild man, then?

“A special freak!” Bare continued. “You see, in a business filled with pill-heads, alcoholics, drug addicts, phoneys (sic), etc., we have found a straight person with talent and lots of soul ... a kind person with much depth, much love and concern for people, very honest and sincere.”

So, that’s no fun.

While normalcy may be a personal goal, Don Williams’ records aren’t normal.

In the early 1970s, under the tutelage of Cowboy Jack Clement and Allen Reynolds, he and a band of ace musicians worked to establish an instantly identifiable sound, one that was highly rhythmic (thanks in large part to the great percussionist Kenny Malone) but hushed, calm and peaceful. The players, who included Malone, steel guitarist/Dobro player Lloyd Green, bass player Joe Allen and pianist Chuck Cochran, rehearsed each week, whittling their sound to minimalist brilliance at what they called “The Thursday Thing.”

“Everybody at JMI (Clement’s fledgling record label) was exploring,” said Fundis, who joined the Williams operation as Reynolds’ assistant engineer and took over as co-producer in 1978. “The mantra was, ‘We’re looking for something different, something unique.’ ”

They found it. No flash, no bluster, no posturing. Just Williams’ wise, empathetic baritone, lovely musicianship, highly evolved rhythms (grooviest percussion stuff on the market, and this was more than a decade prior to Paul Simon’s beloved African excursion, Graceland) and songs from the pens of men who would become known as Nashville masters: Bob McDill, Wayland Holyfield, Danny Flowers, Allen Reynolds, Roger Cook and more. Fundis often chimed in with harmonies that one music critic praised as “high, soaring female vocals.”

Williams shifted record companies, finding his greatest successes at ABC-Dot and MCA, but his core sound remained intact and in demand, as he notched a major hit in every year from 1974 to 1991, scored 45 Top Ten singles (17 of those were No. 1’s) and won a CMA top male vocalist award. The international appeal of his music is evident in the enthusiasm of Australian-reared fan Keith Urban, who I’m told has gone on to become a musician of some note and who to this day can play you dozens of Williams’ songs from memory.

Williams spent 2006 on a farewell tour, and then spent four years at home in Ashland City. Fundis went on to produce big wheels like Keith Whitley, Trisha Yearwood and Sugarland. And to raise a son who now lives in East Nashville. And to pull over to the side of the road to take cell phone calls from Ashland City. And to accept the challenge of co-producing Don Williams’ return to the semi-spotlight, with what is as of this week a commercially released album called And So It Goes.

Williams and Fundis recorded at Sound Emporium, the same place Williams and the boys used to do The Thursday Thing. Same place a fledgling engineer got a running start toward becoming the most famous Garth in town, at least until 1989 or so.

“Making this album was just like it was with Don in the beginning,” Fundis says. “It was exploring, and trying to find the center, the nucleus, the tempo and the rhythm. Finding the simplicity. Finding the truth, so to speak.”